Satisfied that their prisoner was firmly secured, and having removed his pistol and cartridge-belt, the boys replaced him in the chair, and Wilson, pointing his revolver at the man’s head, demanded, “Where is your pard? And what are you and he up to?”
There was a look of amusement in the man’s face as Alex removed his hand, and he replied, “Nothin’ doin’, boys. You’ll have to guess.”
“I’ll give you three, to tell,” said Wilson, assuming a fierce expression and beginning to count.
The prisoner laughed outright. “You gentleman kids wouldn’t shoot a fly,” he declared coolly.
Wilson colored with mortification. For of course he had had no intention of shooting. Even Alex and Jack were forced to smile at the turn of the situation. Wilson had his revenge, however. “Gag him, then, Al,” he suggested, “and we will stow him away beneath the car.”
The man’s mouth opened for a shout. In a flash Alex had slapped a handkerchief between his teeth, and despite the man’s struggles stuffed it well in. Then, taking from his neck a long colored neckerchief, he bound it twice about the man’s face.
“Now out with him, this side,” said Wilson, opening the rear door.
“Wouldn’t it be better to take him over under one of the cars on the sidings?” Jack suggested. “His pard might return, and he kick, or make some kind of a noise underneath.”
“That’s so.” Dragging their prisoner forth, they glanced up and down to see that no one was in sight, and with Jack at his feet and Alex and Wilson at his arms, they hastened across the rails, passed between two freight-cars, and in the deep shadow beyond placed him on the ground and bound him firmly to a rail.
“Be sure you don’t talk now,” said Wilson derisively as they turned away.